Hi diddle diddle, a cat and a fiddle,
 And a tribble lying low.
 For a munchkin pair and a forester hard
 And a tall Canadian border guard,
 Chicago-ing would go.
 
 Spock may pinch, and the Captain wince,
 And David Gerrold crow.
 But a chaplain's chat and a bagpipe's blat;
 An accountant, shyster, and a quack,
 Are gonna steal the show.
 
 See the Klingon dishing shtick,
 As fast as they can dish.
 See them be outrageous liars,
 Or grab someone's antennae wires,
 And say "Let's make a wish!"
 (Commander??!!)
 
 The con committee has radios,
 So none their plans can hear.
 But every kid, who chanced to get
 A Star Trek walkie-talkie set,
 Receives them loud and clear.
 
 Hi diddle diddle, a poster,
 And a pair of rubber ears.
 The crowd's stampeding down the halls
 To rip the stars, in pieces small,
 To keep for souvenirs.
 
 The Con Committee's hiding,
 As the mob begins to hum.
 And tired David and poor Bjo
 Are left to moderate the show,
 While the rest of us just run.
 
 See the Klingons running,
 As the sun begins to rise,
 And run without an interlude
 Until they taste the local food.
 Then watch them drop like flies.
 
 Turn your back and Chekov's gone,
 And Doc McCoy is shy.
 Uhura in her room is locked.
 The bullwhip's fascinating Spock.
 Let's all hunt George Takei. (George?  George?)
 
 It's Sarek, Kirk, and Scotty,
 That Klingons toast with wine.
 For they're the few of all the crew
 That gave us something less to do
 By showing up on time.
 
 Write your contract nice and tight
 And read it through and through.
 And watch the Cons rake in the dough
 And start on planning next year's show
 And screw the gophers, too.
 
 See the Dorsai crash and burn,
 Collapsed among their gear.
 And hear them vow with wails of pain,
 They'll not touch Trekkie Cons again...
 (Brrrring.....New York offered us HOW much?)
 At least until next year.